Out in the Field
by Irisang
Summary: Medieval, arranged marriage AU submitted to Sherlolly Appreciation Week, Day 4, AUs or Crossovers. Their match had been considered the best arrangement back then, with their families being friendly for generations and Sherlock seemed to be quite fond of Molly's company. But after four years into the matrimony, they still lived under different roofs. And people had started to talk.
1. The Wait

**Chapter 1 The Wait**

Coming here was a mistake.

Storming out of his brother's house, Sherlock, the Holmes's younger master of sixteen years of age, ignored the shocking looks from the household servants. His brother's senior steward with the name of- Graham or Gavin? whatever!- strode fluently to catch up with him to pushed and held the thick wooden gate wide open for him at the entrance of the estate, giving him a wild smile before closing the door.

 _Well…at least someone still remember their places_ , the young master thought resentfully as he kicked hard at the smooth pebbles on the neatly paved road. Two of the lads from the town giggled upon seeing him, mimicking his kicks. Sherlock bit hard on his lip, sheering away from the paved way and began to run as fast as he could towards the middle of the field ,throwing himself into the lushness of the mid-summer grass.

Rubbing his face against the slightly coarse herbage, he groaned loudly before flipping himself over to lie on his back. Looking straight into the cloudless afternoon sky, he refused to wink under the bright light for he was still angry at not only the tears from his _wife_ but also the condemning glares from the impeccable and _formidable_ Lady Anthea, his brother's wife of ten years, who had persuaded his family to make him tie the knot with her cousin little Margaret -also known as Molly- four years ago.

It had been considered the best arrangement at the time, with both sides of the families being friendly for generations and Sherlock seemed to be quite fond of Molly's company. The only extra condition required by Molly's father had been that the couple needed to wait for at least a year before consummating the marriage. Which had not been unacceptable for his family given that Molly did look particularly small when they had they wedded at the porch of the nearby monastery.

But now, just storming out of his brother's house, Sherlock frustratingly recalled that it had been already four years and he and Molly not only hadn't consummated _anything_ but also still lived under different roofs. Since in order to honor the agreement with her father, Molly had been arranged to live in his brother's house under the care of her cousin Lady Anthea. Sherlock, on the other hand, being the _married_ second son, was given another household in the town just outside the family estate.

It wasn't so bad in the beginning. At first, Sherlock enjoyed the liberty of living alone and having the dotting Mrs. Hudson running the household. Without being overseen by his sister-in-law, the young master was allowed to lock in the cellar to play with his alchemic devices or run between the town and the nearby city with his friend John, looking into mysteries or giving opinions on disputes while being asked by his brother's senior steward _Gorge_ (was that really his name?). With Mycroft being constantly away, Lady Anthea only required his presence a few times a month so that he could _speak_ with little Molly. And during those times, Sherlock was more than happy to share the mysteries he'd encountered to make her smile. She was very timid in front of him in those early days. Although Sherlock could tell that she loved their long walks -and sometimes chases - through the field from her admiring smiles and nervous giggles.

A year later, nothing had changed.

Then another year passed.

At the beginning of the third year, Sherlock sensed that Molly seemed to speak less. She became quite anxious during his visit. Sometimes she'd even make excuses to hide in her chamber. Talks in the town were suggesting that something hadn't been right about her. Sherlock ignored all those gossiping as he always did, only to bring it up to Lady Anthea once, after one day Molly bumped into him in the town but chose to flee from his presence without a word. Lady Anthea didn't say much, merely telling him that girls became different when they grew older. Sherlock snorted at her face. Lady Anthea always treated him like he was a boy. Such ambiguous answer was just _typical_.

It wasn't until the arrival of John's new wife, a swordmaster's daughter named Mary, that Sherlock started to understand why Lady Anthea didn't want to say anything. After the ceremony, the new couple soon made a new home in the town. And before Sherlock began to get used to Mary's teasing tone, suddenly John told him that he wouldn't be able to run around with him that often in the future, for Mary was with child. Sherlock would never forget the expression on John's face while making the announcement. It had been embarrassment and pride merging together. One of the oddest thing he'd even seen.

'No need to look so surprised, Sherlock,' John laughed, as he gave him a firm pat on the back. 'It's not like you don't know how this kind of thing goes. Sooner or later this would come to you as well!'

'Come to me…how?' Sherlock remembered himself uttering, his eyes glancing past the threshold of John's house, as a tittering Mary, with her arms folded in front of her, stepping out of the door to lean upon the wooden wall.

'Oh, no! Are you serious?' she exclaimed, eyes widening. 'For someone with your reputation and status, _Master Sherlock_ , your ignorance of human nature is unbelievable!' She had smacked her tongue rather loudly, while shaking her head, giving her husband an intriguing look, which John responded with a suppressed smile…much to Sherlock's annoyance.

But he didn't snap at them. Turning his gaze between the husband and wife, an unknown sense of loss captured the chest of the young master, making him tighten his jaw and look away.

Sensing his displeasure, John moved closer to him and asked. 'Sherlock…' he began, taking a deep breath. 'My friend, did your family tell you anything before the nuptials? You know…things about how husband and wife being…um…together?'

'They…did,' Sherlock muttered in response, still looking at the other way, as he vaguely recalled the brief conversation between him and Mycroft days before the ceremony at the monastery. He hadn't paid the slightest attention throughout the whole lecture, far too occupied thinking about the dead moth on his desk and how he'd show it to little Molly when his brother had finished. But thinking back on that day, Sherlock could recollect the exact _lecture_ Mycroft had given him. Among all the nonsense of the ways of nature and family duties…one particular thing he had said stood out - ' _Patience is required in your union with little Margaret, Sherlock. It could be a long wait before she is able to be your wife in truth_.'

 _His wife in truth_ , those were his brother's exact words.

He didn't bother to bid the Watsons goodbye before he found himself walking toward the manor. The household servants stared at him as if they had seen a ghost. He searched for Molly, his wife, wondering what she'd make of his sudden visit and unsure of how to tell her that he missed her company. But after looking into every room in the house, he was led to the stable to confront a slightly disgruntled Lady Anthea.

' _Brother_ ,' she called out. Sherlock couldn't help but gasp. It had been years since she addressed him as such when she first met him as the new mistress of the household and he was merely a six-year-old running about and messing with her servants. A thorough spank by her maidservant _Sally_ had put him straight for good, at least within her ladyship's hearing range. Since then, Sherlock had learned to avoid her (and her maids!) when he planned to do anything _fun_ in the house.

'Lady Anthea,' he responded, blinking slowly while her eyes bored into his. 'Ah…what a nice day? I haven't seen such clear sky for weeks…'

'Indeed.' She smiled, turning around to gesture the servants leave them then giving him a firm look, before leading him to walk to the open space behind the stable. _So that she could speak with me in private_ , Sherlock noted immediately.

'Nice day,' she began, pointing directly to the field beyond the fence. 'That's why I sent Molly out for a ride. She can do with some fresh air and sun!'

Sherlock felt his jaw drop. 'Molly doesn't ride,' he said.

'She does now,' she cheerfully sang, raising a hand to put above her eyes, looking forwards to the distant field. 'Look, there she is! Gregory only taught her for a few days and see what a horsewoman she becomes! Very impressive, don't you think?'

'I…' Sherlock didn't answer. His eyes were drawn towards the green field where the afternoon ray shone brightly as if the sky was raining gold dust. Molly was there, wearing a cornflower blue gown and straddling Anthea's chestnut mare, while the young animal bounced up and down across the field, making her toss about on the saddle. But she didn't lose her balance, simply held the rein securely and managing to sit straight while moving accordingly. The groomsmen standing nearby looked quite nervous, as they kept trying to rush forwards when Molly seemingly lost her grip, only to hold back each every single time, when Molly balanced herself and laughed out loud.

Sherlock held his breath and swallowed hard. It was the first time he heard Molly laughed like that, cheerful and carefree. He turned his face away.

'Sherlock,' Lady Anthea called him, while he biting his lip, unsure of what made his stomach twist.

' _Brother?_ '

'Yes?' he jerked.

'Are you well?'

'I'm fine, Lady Anthea,' he blurted out, knowing that she wouldn't believe him.

'Your cheeks are red.'

'The air is warm-'

'You may stop pretending, Sherlock,' she said with a light snort, then let out a sigh, 'I know why you're here. Sally said you almost tore down every door in the house in search of your wife!'

'That's a wild exaggeration, _sister!_ '

'Don't be so grumpy. You know how Sally is like,' she shrugged, turning to look at the field, where Molly was still riding, the young mare had become less bouncy and trotting briskly across the long grass. 'You came here to see Molly, why?' she began. Sherlock immediately gritted his teeth.

'I don't suppose that's _your ladyship's_ business. Molly and I are-'

'Married, yes. But that doesn't mean you may intrude here without notice. I believe I had made the instructions very clear.'

Sherlock could only smirk and try not to laugh at his brother's wife. 'You seem rather determined to interfere, Lady Anthea. Which is curious, given your position as the mistress of the house and my brother's wife. Surely you know you shouldn't stand in the way of- '

'She hasn't bled, Sherlock.' Flatly, Lady Anthea cut in, staring up at him. The groomsmen in the field suddenly raised their voices to call for Molly, asking her to ride back, as she reached the far end at the edge of the forest.

'What-'

'Don't play fool to me,' she sighed. 'You know what I'm talking about.'

'The…' Sherlock hesitated, his mind racing rapidly while his eyes fixed on Molly in the distance. She was calling and laughing out loudly while rushing back. Her head turned and halted for a moment, as she looked at the general direction of the servants. Sherlock felt his ears burning up.

'It's fine for you to be eager, though,' Lady Anthea sighed, her tone turning a bit softer. 'Being married for more than two years and still unable to touch your wife,' she continued. 'But bear in mind, Sherlock. We made a promise to her father. There's no way we would push her to share your bed before she's ready. Do you understand?'

'Yes,' Sherlock dropped his gaze. His cheeks were aflame! All he wanted at that moment was to run away. Of course, he knew what his sister-in-law meant. He wasn't stupid. He had heard discrete whispers and vulgar ballads spoken and sung by both men and women. But never had he imagined it would be _Lady Anthea_ of all people to be the first one talking about his… _wants_. And never had he, before that moment, known how much he wanted Molly, his _wife_.

So he slipped away, despite Lady Anthea telling him it was fine to stay until Molly rode back. He retreated back to his house, hiding in his chamber, trying to ease the pain inflicted by the image of Molly's slim figure on the horseback by his hands. But he soon realized it was impossible, for her pearls of laughter remained in his ears even after he fell asleep. In his dream, the field was empty just for the two of them. There were no servant, no Lady Anthea watching from the distance, as he grabbed the flying blue gown to turn her around, kissing her lips until she was blushed like an apple. He couldn't wait to see how far did the redness on her skin go down from her neck.

That was the beginning of his suffering.

He missed the arranged call time of that week, then the next. Because he didn't know what to say to her.

He followed Molly from the distance a few times, just to see where she went and to whom she talked.

He was absolutely livid when she sprained her left ankle while getting down from her newly purchased grey mare and was picked up by the new servant in Lady Anthea's household named Dimmock _._

He remembered lashing out at her on the street when he saw Dimmock carrying her on his back, with her arms wrapped around his shoulders. Her suppressed sobs broke into tears when he chastised her careless and _childish_ manner. It was the first time he saw her cry.

Lady Anthea was furious, according to the talks in the town. Sally was sent to _ask_ him what was that about. Sherlock told her that it was painful to see Molly behave so foolishly in public. Sally snorted at his face. The next day she brought a bunch of flower to his house, telling him that her lady demanded him to call on Molly and apologize later that day. He did as he was told, only to be thrown out moments after he arrived for upsetting Molly by his comment on her swelling ankle and bags under her eyes. (' _These really make you more like a fool than yesterday on the street!_ ' )

Then that was it. Her timid smiles disappeared. She was confined in the house for days. When he went to call on her a week later, Sally was there to accompany them. They sat together by the window, looking down to the front yard. Sherlock told her that he was glad that she stopped riding, for it was clearly not a suitable activity for her small figure. She stared at him for a while then told him it was one of the few things she believed she was actually good at. And she would be doing it again, once her foot was fully healed.

Sherlock remembered arguing with her. But she merely looked away when he spoke and, a few moments later, turned to tell Sally that she was tired.

A few days later, Lady Anthea sent words to his house, saying that Molly was to spend the rest of summer and autumn with her parents. So there was no need of him to call on her until she came back, probably before the first snow.

Sherlock felt like being punched in the stomach. Mary urged him to bid Molly goodbye before she left, but he ignored her. He stood aside near the road when the carriage drove away.

She didn't return when the snow fell. One morning after another flurry, a man bearing the Holmes crest rode into the town, asking for the audience of him and Lady Anthea. He brought along Mycroft's hand, which informed them that Molly's father had died.

The letter also told them that there was no need for them to travel to Molly in the snow because Mycroft had already been there when the message was sent. He shall return with Molly when the snow thawed and hopefully the lady's chamber in Sherlock's house would be ready by that time.

The hint was clear enough.

He dreamt of her again that night. This time, she wasn't in the field, but sitting on his bed, looking away but still wearing that cornflower blue gown, while he was turning and tossing under the cover, struggling to get up. And when he did sit up, he was surrounded by darkness except for the flickering light and cracking sounds from the fireplace.

Lady Anthea came to call on him the next morning, accompanied by her maidservants. She didn't pay him much attention, simply selecting a few rooms and told him to clear them for it would be necessary for Molly's use once she became the mistress of his household.

He did as he was told.

But those rooms never had a chance to be opened until now. For, when she and Mycroft came back shortly after the snowbreak, she chose to remain in the manor because she had been, as Mycroft put it, sinking deep in the well of grief. For the entire spring, she rarely went anywhere except for the chapel. Sherlock only had a glimpse of her once, when he visited John and Mary to congregate the arrival of their new daughter, little Mary. Sherlock didn't expect to come across Molly that day. She was standing by the cradle with Mary, as both of them had their backs to the entrance. He was stunned by her significant change. Only a few months past but she seemed to be two inches taller. Her chestnut braid was so much longer than he'd remembered, as she stood by the cradle, curling the end of her plait around her fingers to play with the infant. She then knelt down on the floor to look into the child, leaning close to place a kiss on the baby's head. Her pale grey gown draped down from her shoulders, bringing out the curvy shape of her back.

'She smells so good!' Molly whispered to Mary by her side, unaware of Sherlock's presence. 'Do all of them smell so sweet?' she asked. Mary shook her head.

'I don't know, probably,' she shrugged, before giving Molly a pinch. 'You'll know when you have your own, I suppose. When will you move to live with Sherlock? Lady Anthea had made the household ready for you weeks ago.'

'I don't…' her voice broke apart, letting out a weak sob. 'I don't want to live with him. He's so cruel, Mary.'

And that was it. Sherlock didn't know what else they'd said. He turned on his heels then stalked out of the door. Mary's calls came from behind, as he walked away. He didn't stop. He didn't stop until he hit the threshold of his home, kicking the door opened then bolted himself in his chamber.

He ignored Mrs. Hudson's calls as he laid on his back, recollecting every moment he'd ever spent with little Molly. Guilt and anger flooded over him at the same time. How could she ever consider him as cruel? He did scold her a couple of times but surely she knew he was only concerning about her well-being. A girl with small stature like her should never be on horseback. Lady Anthea should never have let her ride in the first place.

He didn't know how many days he'd avoided the rest of the world, as he completely withdrew, staying in the cellar to work with his alchemic devices, trying to figure out why the soil from the hills was paler than the soil from the field. Then one afternoon, his brother's messenger came in, asking him to dine with the master and the lady on the next morning. The man didn't mention anything about Molly. But Sherlock knew that was the only reason that his brother would summon him.

So he went. He couldn't think of any reason to turn it down. Sherlock was fully prepared to be lectured in the dining room by Mycroft, the master of the house. But to his surprise, only Molly awaited him when he pushed into the door. She looked at him with doe eyes, before timidly stepped forward and drop a curtsy.

Sherlock clenched his fists. Since when did she ever curtsy to him?

'What is this?' he demanded, watching fear rising in Molly's brown eyes. She had become so thin and white. The mark under her eyes suggested she had been crying, quite a bit it seemed. Oh, the way she stared at him. It was as if he had done something wrong.

'Sherlock,' she began, her voice was weak and a bit coarse. Did that mean she didn't sleep well the night before? It could be. But why would he even care?

'Margaret,' he bit out, the wrong name slipping out from his mouth like a dart throwing to a target.

She flinched a little.

'I'm…sorry but I…I just hope that…' she stammered, lowering her face to stare at her fingers, twisting her hair around them.

'What do you want?' he cut in, rolling his eyes, as he lifted up his chin.

'It's…about the arrangement of my residence. I mean…I'm supposed to move in with you now…' She bit her tongue, hard, swallowing several times to force herself looking at him. Sherlock pressed his lips together, intrigued by what she was going to say. Didn't she tell Mary that she thought he was cruel?

'I'm hoping that…if you don't mind, of course, I'm hoping that my mother could live with me after I move into your…'

Sherlock blinked. 'Your mother?' he narrowed his gaze, recalling the stuffy pain within his chest when he went to see her carriage drive off to her parents.

'I'm thinking that after my father…'

'What are you?' Sherlock snorted. 'A three-year-old still needing to be tended day and night? You already spent the entire winter with your family and that wasn't enough!'

She gaped at him, trying to speak a few times, beads of sweats forming between her eyebrows.

'But…my father had just…and mother she…ugh…' Still stammering, Molly's hands tightened, as she withdrawal backward.

'Stop being a child, Margaret! I won't have you like this if you're-'

'Oh, who said I want you, then?!' Suddenly, she snapped, shouting out with all her strength and stamped hard on the floor, making a loud thud, as the she continued to yell at him. 'I'm more than happy to stay here! Better to die alone than being stuck with a brute like you! I was a fool to actually think you liked me once. So thanks for making me see how _childish_ I was, Sherlock! You may rest assured, now. Because I'd never get in your way, again. Ever!'

With that, she turned and ran across the large hall, palms covering her face. The door flung opened, as she approached. Lady Anthea stepped in, and Molly threw herself into her arms and began to sob. The lady of the manor looked at him firmly, expressionless, before she demanded him to leave.

He hesitated when he walked past them. Molly was crying, shakily but silently, on her cousin's shoulder. Her whitened knuckles clenched tightly onto Lady Anthea's white headscarf. He inhaled a few times, trying to say something but his sister-in-law merely gave him an icy glare. She pierced at him, didn't even blink until he resumed to move away, running faster and faster through the hallway then storming out of the house.


	2. The Tides

**Chapter 2 The Tides**

Molly felt numb. Nothing caught her attention except for the gentle breeze coming through the window, as she curled up on the windowsill facing the backyard of the manor. Her cheeks and nose were exceptionally warm due to the tears she'd just dropped. But it was much better now, for she had finally finished crying.

Opposite to her, by the other side of the wooden sill, cousin Anthea sat on a chair, focusing on the needlework in her hands. The colorful silks already formed the outline of the Holmes family crest under her fingers, while she sewed efficiently on the smooth fabric. A mild smirk hung on the corner of her lips, which usually meant something within her reach wasn't to her satisfaction.

'Don't stare, Molly,' sensing her gaze, the lady of the house spoke quietly. She lowered down the wooden hoop before reaching for her headdress, tugging it distractedly. 'Your eyes swell like walnuts. It's not a very pretty sight to behold.'

'I'm sorry,' Molly heard herself murmured.

'Don't be. We both know who is in fault.' She sighed, holding her embroidery up in front of her face to look at it closely, then tossed it in the basket by her feet with a slight snort. 'Your cousin Mycroft sent his regards, by the way.'

'Oh,' Molly groaned while readjusted her position on the windowsill, holding her knees. 'That's…very kind of him.'

'I shall pass on your gratitude…when I see him next time,' she shrugged with a slight nod, looking blankly at the general directing beyond the window, and then let out a wide yawn without even bothering to cover her face.

Molly blinked at her, swallowing hard.

'What?' the lady rose one of her eyebrows.

'Nothing…' she muttered, looking away from her cousin. But Anthea simply leaned forward, her chin resting on her entwined fingers.

'You obviously see _something_ ,' she smirked, tilting her head to on side. 'Sometimes, little Margaret, it doesn't hurt for you to just admit that you are smarter than you look, especially when your poor old cousin here is almost half dead due to boredom.'

'But you never get bored,' Molly blurted out. 'You never…I rarely hear you say you're bored…I mean…Why are you sitting here, Anthea? Shouldn't you be elsewhere tending business of the estate? And since when you ever have time for needlework?'

'There you go!' Anthea exclaimed, stretching her arms and legs on the chair. 'Already recover from the cry. You better pretend to be upset for a little longer. We don't want Sherlock to know that you recollected yourself so soon after this morning. I suggest you stay in this chamber at least for the rest of the day so that people will talk.' She gave Molly a big smile. Molly narrowed her gaze.

'I don't want to sit indoors all the day, Anthea,' she wiped her face with the half damp kerchief in her hand. 'And…you still haven't told me why you're here, instead of doing…whatever you usually do during the day.'

'You mean whatever I do when my husband was away?' Anthea chuckled, stretching her arms over her head again. 'Well, the master returns. There's no reason for the mistress still stands in his place. That means I can be idle as long as Mycroft is in charge.'

'I see,' Molly replied, turning away to look down the window. The sun wasn't very high yet and the air felt rather humid and cool. The field looked a bit foggy but that meant the sky would be clear in no time. Everything beyond the window begged her to go out.

'Are you going out?' Her cousin's sigh came to her once again. Molly jerked, as she looked back to the sitting lady, who was reaching down to the basket on the floor, picking up the wooden loop and staring, without resuming sewing.

'Yes.' Molly nodded, noting that Anthea was holding the embroidery upside down.

'To where?' she asked, tapping and fiddling the wooden hoop in her hands. Molly couldn't help but stare at the prick of the needle swinging by the unfinished pattern.

'Field under the hill.' she answered, watching the needle prick flying back and forth by Anthea's hands, as Anthea kept flipping the wooden loop around.

'Riding?' she looked up.

'I suppose not. They kept telling me the ground is too soft…'

'Good.'Anthea finally held straight of her unfinished embroidery. She sighed, again, turning to Molly. 'Bring me back something, then. Flowers, sweetgrass…whatever you can find.' She leaned back, crossing her legs under her gown then she picked up the needle, turning it between her two fingers.

Molly frowned. She rarely saw her cousin behave so fretful.

'Why don't you come with me?' she asked, jumping down from the window, throwing her damp kerchief onto the nearby table, as she went fumbling in the box by her bed for a clean one 'You should come with me if you're so bored. We can go to the market square before going to the field.'

Anthea sighed, heavily this time.

'I better not,' she shook her head, her eyes fixing on her needlework.

'You hate needlework,' Molly remarked, tugging the squared cloth into her left sleeve.

'Hum…not as much as playing the harp.' Anthea hummed quietly. 'Or singing.' She began to work, moving her chair slight closer to the window.

Molly stared at her, confused.

'You weren't idle when cousin Mycroft and I first came back,' she said, raising her eyebrows.

'Mycroft was in need of some rest. I merely prolonged my interference for a few days.'

'You weren't idle yesterday,' Molly pointed out.

'Well…'

'I didn't expect you to hear us argue this morning. I thought you were busy somewhere else.' _Why Anthea kept looking at that piece of embroidery? She clearly disliked it._

'I just happened to be there. And you did cry rather loudly if you hadn't noticed.' The lady smiled, still looking down at her work.

'Cousin.' Molly pressed her lips together.

'Yes?' Anthea still stared down.

'Are you ill?'

'Ah…' she lifted her face, looking straight towards the window. 'No,' she said.

'But you are-'

'Idle,' she finally turned to look at her, a wry smile on her face. 'And bored.'

'Why?' Molly asked, again.

'I'd told you. The master has returned so I don't need to…'

Frustratingly, Molly shook her head. 'You're lying.'

'I'm really not!' Anthea smiled at her.

'But you're keeping something…' she bit her lip. 'From me!'

'I might be,' her cousin tittered with a shrug.

Molly gaped, couldn't quite believe what she'd heard. Anthea, despite her reputation of being preserved and somehow _mystical_ , had always been very straightforward to her. Never for the past four years had she tried to brush her off. Sometimes servants would say the mistress was too harsh on her. But Molly was fine with that. Being away from her home, she'd rather her cousin to be blunt and harsh than keeping her from the truth. And so far Anthea had never let her down. So something must have happened. Something unusual and…private.

'Anthea?'

'Hum?'

'Are you with child?' Molly asked, tentatively.

A laugh escaped her lips. Anthea looked up, brushing the wooden loop down into the basket and giving Molly a wide grin.

'Finally, I was starting to think you wouldn't figure out.'

Molly stared at her, mouth opened. That wasn't the respond she'd expected. Wasn't she supposed to be embarrassed…or blushed?

'Ugh…' Molly opened her mouth, not entirely sure what to say.

'Don't tell anyone, for now.' Anthea cleared her throat, leaning back into the chair. 'It's still early. Do you understand?'

'Yes.' Molly nodded.

'Good,' Anthea said, reaching to the side of her face to adjust her headdress. Molly stood still. What was she supposed to do?

'Anthea?'

'What?' her cousin glanced at her while she untied the hidden knots underneath her chin, unwrapping the white scarf from her head with an annoying sigh.

'Um…do you need anything?' she managed to speak out. The amusing look on Anthea's face already told her what the answers would be.

'Ah, little Margaret,' she chuckled as she pulled the fabric off and started to loosen her hair. 'Don't you worry about me.'

'No, I just want to say that-'

'Are you still bringing me flowers and sweetgrass?'

'Yes!' Molly blurted out.

'Off you go then!' Anthea raised her eyes. 'Go wash you face and put that cape on!' she gestured to the entrance. Molly hesitated but soon trotting away when Anthea started to roll her eyes. She rushed towards the large wardrobe, fumbling for her clothes before she bid Anthea goodbye.

'Try not run into Sherlock!' she heard her voice again when she walked into the hallway. 'The talks must have already begun after this morning. The last thing I need is another fight from you two.'

o0o

o0o0o0o0o

The stable always smelt like…well, a stable.

Molly grinned as she ran pass the backyard. It wasn't noon yet so she expected most of the servants to be elsewhere running errands. She was called by one of the cook to stop for a quick bite as she rushed through the kitchen. But she didn't stop. The entire household staff were always very keen on feeding her ever since she came to the Holmes manor. At first, they nagged about her small stature, saying she was too short and thin. Then before she came back from her father's funeral, they murmured about her lack of menses, blaming it on her poor appetite, much to Molly's distress. For, she was never picky on her food, always tried to finish what she was given. But the talks never stopped. More than a dozen times Anthea had to chide, sometimes even scold, the servants for their opinions on Molly's health and shape. But that still couldn't prevent them from whispering. What made it worse was when the whispers in the household reached the market square of the town. The talks soon became gossips, then before long, slanders. People on the streets looked at her strangely, saying that something was wrong about her.

Molly cried, more than once, on cousin Anthea's shoulder. Her cousin comforted her with stories of Lady Violet, Mycroft and Sherlock's grandmother, telling her that the unusual lady had once believed that women should wait until nearly twenty years of age to consummate their marriage and have children. Of course, her view had been quite extreme. But due to all kinds of reasons the Holmes family did have a history of delaying consummation. So she really shouldn't have avoided Sherlock just because she was embarrassed by some meaningless gossips. Especially when Sherlock had always been quite friendly, not yet expressed any wishes to further their involvement.

That had put Molly at ease, if only for a little while. She resumed her walk to the town, dismissing the looks and talks behind her back. She quickly befriended John Watson's new wife Mary, a quick-witted woman who could wield a sword better than any men in the town- including her husband John. It was Mary who suggested Molly try to go on horseback. _How can you never try it, Molly? You like horses and love to run around so much!_

It was true. Molly was fond of horses. Her father used to take her with him on horseback when she was still at home. But she never imagined riding astride on her own. Mother wouldn't approve. And cousin Anthea was always looking up to her mother. Never had Molly imagined that she'd agree.

But she did. Without a word, Anthea summoned Gregory the senior steward, asking him to take some time off each day to teach her. What happened next was like a dream. The first time she settled herself on the saddle, she was hooked. The gentle mare became a bouncy rabbit under her command. All of the groomsmen were terrified but Molly didn't care about that they said - or shouted. She only knew that she felt like floating on clouds. It felt right! Until Gregory rode to catch up with her and gave her an exasperated lecture when he drove her back to the manor. He made her promise in front of Anthea that she wouldn't just ride away in the future. Only to give up on the very next day when Molly rode off immediately after mounting the horse. After that, he only gave her advice _before_ she got on horseback and had people follow her so that he could fetch her back when it became late.

She thought Sherlock would be pleased to know that she learned to ride in such short time. But she was wrong. She had seen him following her with the strangest look on his face on the day she slipped when she dismounted from her new horse. He rushed to her after she cried out. For a moment Molly thought he'd pull her up like he once did the first time they met at her mother's gardens when they climbed up to the cherry tree and fell down on a pile of straws, causing a stir among mother's maidservants. But he didn't. He stood aside when she struggled to her feet but failed, then insulted her when one of the men of the manor asked her to lean on his back so that he could carry her home.

She cried to sleep in Anthea's bed that night, not quite realize what happened around her. All she could hear was Sherlock's sneers and snorts, saying what a fool she made of herself. And when she woke up the next morning, Sherlock already awaited her. He brought her a bunch of flowers, then laughed at her again, until Sally threw him out.

She didn't remember how long she'd cried after that. Anthea was busy. So Molly was mostly stayed in her chamber with the company of the cats…and occasionally Sally. Her foot was more serious than she first thought. After a full week of resting, she could barely leave to the parlor to meet Sherlock. He was nicer that time, asking about her injury. But all Molly wanted was to smack him on the head and see who'd be the foolish one there. Of course, she couldn't do that. Sally was there keeping an eye on them. So she held her temper, then decided that she was done after Sherlock said she shouldn't ride again.

'I don't want to see him. I just don't! ' she told Anthea, who initially dismissed her but soon realized Molly was serious. 'If you're serious, dear cousin,' the lady of the house sighed, 'The best way to avoid him entirely is to go back to your parents. Stay with them for the time being and decide what you want to do next.'

Molly was more than happy with the arrangement. She had only gone back to her father's estate once during the years. Her parents, although never short of sending her gifts and words, had only visited her once as well, much less than they'd promised her when she first left home. Because her father had never been in his best condition.

She never thought it would be her last visit to him.

Father was like his usual self when she first went back, cheerful and loving, if only a little lack of spirits. To Molly's surprise, neither of he or mother had asked her if something was wrong with Sherlock. In fact, looking back, they were oddly at ease of their only daughter coming back from her husband's family without saying anything. All they did was make sure that Molly was comfortable, allowing her to do whatever she wanted. Mother even held her tongue when Molly decided she wanted to try riding father's old stallion to the shore. She praised Molly's skills after she went back that day, saying she was very proud to see how Molly was as good as her father on horseback.

She should have known that something was wrong.

A few weeks later, father was taken ill. It was until the physician was summoned that Molly realized the severity of his condition. He had, according to her mother, always suffered from the old injury at his stomach received from a battle years before Molly was born. He had been severely wounded to an extent that no one believed he would survive and was only pulled out of the battlefield because he was a Lord. But he had managed to recover, if not fully. Molly was stunned at the knowledge. Never in her fourteen years of life had she heard of anyone talking about this.

'I didn't know you had gone to battle,' she said to her father by his bed. Father simply smiled, patting her head as if she had been a five-year-old begging for treats.

'There's nothing worth talking about,' her father answered with his hoarse voice. 'A disastrous defeat. I wasn't expected to survive,' then his smile widened to a joyful beam. 'Or still be able to father a child after that.'

'But…' Molly didn't know what to say. 'I never knew…why didn't you tell me you're in pain?'

He began to chuckle. 'I'm not always in pain, Molly. Besides,' she could see the moist in his eyes started to form. 'What good would it do…having you worry about me? Those quacks…always say I'm to die within a couple years, only that I've been like this for almost two decades…'

He then laughed, ever so lightly. Molly watched his chest heaving steadily, trying to swallow the saltiness down in her mouth. And suddenly she remembered. The last time her father had been taken ill…it was right before she first met Sherlock.

She couldn't recall those days very well. But now, she began to remember seeing a lot of people in her home, talking to mother. Molly hadn't been pleased with them. She was constantly asked to play in mother's gardens during those days, far away from the other part of the house…because _his lordship needs his rest_. And then one day, Sherlock was brought to the gardens and introduced to her, they suggested Molly show him around the house.

'Molly?' father called her gently while she was still thinking.

'Yes?'

'Are you happy with the Holmes?'

'Yes,' she answered without a thought, but father's eyes narrowed.

'Cousin Anthea wrote to us and said you and Sherlock had quarreled, quite seriously.'

'It wasn't that…bad…'

'But you've come back for two months. He never sends a word…'

'Sherlock doesn't write…to anyone…'

'Molly.' Father squeezed her hands, 'just bear in mind, if you wish to come home, then come home. Even after your marriage is consummated you can still come back. Remember, alright?'

'Yes, father.' Molly whispered, rising to her feet as she saw her father fading to sleep. Her mother was standing behind her, tears on her face.

That was the last time father had talked. He remained unconscious for the following days. Physicians weren't able to do anything. So the priest came. Molly didn't like priests. But she kept her silence and stood aside as they prepared…whatever it was they needed to prepare. As it turned out, there wasn't really much had to be arranged further by mother and her because even the coffin had already been made three years ago.

Cousin Mycroft arrived the night before father drew his last breath. Molly didn't know mother had sent him words. She didn't pay much attention to anything else, still hoping father would wake up from his sleep. She spent all of her waking moments looking at him, brooding over the past years. I _should have known_ , she thought. _Why did I never notice? He always has that strange face when he thought I'm not looking. He always stays at home, rarely traveling around like other lords…Why didn't he and mother tell me?_

She didn't care much when her mother came and sat beside her, holding her in her arms, for the obtuse pain was slowly taking over her. Food was brought to them. But neither she or mother touched it. She wanted to scream but wasn't sure to whom. Then she was removed from the room…after they rubbed him with oil and covered him up. She passed out immediately when her head hit the pillow, falling asleep while the dull pain in her belly increasingly throbbed.

She then woke up before dawn, crying out. Struggling to her feet, Molly called for help in the dark as the warm liquid between her thighs dripping down, leaving stains on her nightgown. A woman barged in, scooping her up as soon as she saw the blood. Within no time others were there. Mother was the last the to appear and she was still wearing the clothes before Molly went to bed.

After that, everything was a blur. A lot were told but few actually listened. All Molly knew was that she did everything they asked. When things finally came to a halt, it was already winter. Her monthly curse had visited again.

'You must go back to your husband,' mother told her when she was confined in her chamber because of the pain. It was almost unbearable. 'The only cure for such pain is married life, that much I know.'

'But what about you?' she asked.

Mother shook her head. 'I should be fine. I'm not lack of company, as you can see.'

'But-'

'You ought to be cheerful, my dear.' Mother gave her a weak smile. 'It's a new start of your life. Things won't be the same once you go back. And it's bound to change for the better, I'm sure.'

Molly didn't believe her.

Mother liked to make things sounds hopeful, even if she was unsure. Everyone knew she could hardly eat and sleep properly after they buried Father. So she went to cousin Mycroft, asking him if it was appropriate for her to invite mother back to the Holmes estate with her. He said yes.

But he also told her that it might be better for _Sherlock_ to invite her to stay in their house- 'I mean yours and Sherlock's, little Margaret.' And when Molly expressed her doubts, Mycroft simply smiled before he straightened his back.

'In that case, my dear _sister_ ,' - it was the first time he called her _sister_ instead of _cousin-_ 'all you need to do is to persuade _my wife_ so she may invite Lady Margaret to our estate.'

Molly kept his words in mind. She wished to find a chance to talk to Sherlock after she went back to the Holmes estate, only that she didn't feel like doing anything after arrived there. The manor and the town seemed to remain the same. But somehow she felt different. Before she had left, all she had ever cared about was how to pass the days. She had missed her parents, of course. But only until now she realized she would remain here permanently. There was a chance she may not ever go back to the place she was born. Father had died. And mother…perhaps she wished to die there too.

She told all of that to Anthea after she was found crying in her room. Her cousin shed tears with her, telling her a thing or two she knew about her father before Molly was born. But there was little she could do. Molly knew she was to move to live with Sherlock after she returned. But neither Anthea or Mycroft had ever mentioned it. They allowed her to stay in the manor for however long she wanted. Molly knew she should be grateful.

But she still couldn't help but be sad. She was still mourning even though she knew she should stop. She hadn't talked to Sherlock for months. And he had never bothered to visit her as well. The only visitor she had was the nine-month-pregnant Mary Watson, who always brought her sewing basket with her for she was about to have the baby at any moment but still not yet finished much of her needlework.

'I feel sore sitting still,' Mary said, as Molly finished up the sewing for her. 'John says I become even more active after I got pregnant. And he's right…'

'Is that how it feels? Sore?' Molly asked her. Mary merely shrugged.

'Ah…not really…it feels…rather odd.'

'Odd?'

'Come here.' She moved forward, grabbing Molly's hand to press on her swelling belly.

It was moving. Molly gasped and withdrew her hand.

'It's alive,' she said.

'Of course!' Mary snorted at her. 'What else it would be?'

'Ugh…I didn't mean…'

'I know you don't.' She waved Molly's hand off. 'Ah, those in town say it's a boy because it fidgets a lot and sometimes I can't sleep. But-'

'You fidget a lot, too,' Molly pointed out.

'Exactly.' Mary laughed out loud, leaning back. 'I can't wait to get it out! It becomes so heavy!'

She went into labor the next morning. Molly didn't know until she went home from the chapel when Anthea told her, asking her to visit the Watsons the next day. Molly grinned when she heard it was a girl, then ran back to her room to finish up the needlework Mary left there. For the first time in months, she was actually looking forward to something.

She didn't expect Sherlock would be there. And worst of all, she didn't expect him to hear her saying he was cruel.

But he did hear her, as he kicked out of the door and stormed away. Molly could barely stand up from the ground by the baby's cradle when Mary called out for him. She couldn't say anything until John came home and asked them what had happened. She didn't remember how she went home- John walked her back, perhaps - only that she wanted to bolt herself away from the rest of the world…but of course, Anthea would never allow it. Her cousin didn't say anything after she learned what had happened, which only made Molly feel worse.

She kept silent for days, then decided she could no longer stay that way. She walked to Sherlock's house and knocked at his door. But there was no one answering, much to her confusion. Later that day, Mycroft summoned her to his presence. Molly thought he was to lecture or chide her. But no. The master of the house merely asked her why had she gone on knocking Sherlock's door and what had she tried to say. So she told the truth. She told Mycroft that she wished to ask Sherlock if he'd invite her mother to the town after she moved to him. She had put it off far too long. There was little reason to wait any longer.

Mycroft sighed, looking at her for quite awhile until Molly began to fret. He then told her if that was what she wishes, he could summon Sherlock to the manor so that she may speak him directly. Molly agreed. He then suggested it may be better if he accompanied her when they spoke…much to Molly's surprise. Surely Mycroft knew how much Sherlock disliked his interference. Yes, he may be rude. But how rude could he be when Molly knew for certain that she'd seen the worst? So ever so politely, she turned Mycroft down. After all, as long as she remained civil, there's no way Sherlock could say anything more harmful than accusing her of being foolish, right?

Thinking of such, Molly leaned into the stable wall and burst into laughter. The morning sun was still rising as the air became warmer. The horses inside the walls began to rustle, as her voice pitched higher. Before this morning she'd probably keep it down or else someone may chide on her manner. But now…

 _Why would I care for manners when I have the nerves to call my husband a brute? s_ he thought as she kept on giggling. Running to the fence separating the backyard and the field, Molly jumped up to it with a single leap, then landing on her feet, stamping into the ground regardless the damp earth soiling her boots and dress. She then resumed running, lifting her gown up to her knees before dashing to the hill at the far end of the field.


	3. The Field

**Chapter 3 The Field**

 _It was wrong,_ was what crossed Sherlock's mind as the sun rose higher and higher over the field. He had just woke up from a dreamless sleep after brooding over and over on what had happened in the manor. The near scream Molly gave out as she accused him of being a brute and the near loath look cast by his sister-in-law had haunted him before he dozed off. Rubbing his head, he sat up and stretched his legs, staring at the distant hills. The slightly damp grass had soaked into his clothes.

 _The whole thing was wrong_ , he told himself again, as helplessness lurked within his chest. Letting out a long sigh, the young master irritably pulled on the fabric which stuck on his skin. The chills made him shiver, telling him it wouldn't be wise to keep staying in the field, despite the air becoming warmer and warmer every moment.

Standing up, with the feeling of heaviness still crept in his stomach, he stalked onto the soft soil. Looking across the meadow and the distant hills, Sherlock's chin clenched, as he began to take in the beautiful scene of the green field. Almost immediately he recognized the walnut grove under the hillside that he was standing at the at the exact spot where he had kissed Molly repeatedly in his dreams.

He never really counted how many times he had dreamt of this place. In those dreams, Molly was always facing the grove when he found her and pulled her around to capture her lips. In those dreams she would always smile at him, allowing him to nudge her down on the grass without even blinking. Her brown eyes would stare at him through the lush grass with her blushed face almost touching his, as they lay on the strangely warm ground made by his mind. The soft, warm ground felt almost as cozy as a feather bed and he could reach her as easily as she were next to him on his bed. Only each time he did so, all he found was darkness and emptiness on the other side.

John and Mary had urged him to send her words during those days when she was away. But Sherlock ignored them. Lady Anthea sent her maids and asked him if he had any messages for Molly each time she had men ride to her family estate. But he turned them down as well. For, he had nothing that could be put into words. All he wanted was to see her again and tell her how much he wanted her lying by his side.

But none of that seemed to matter now. After this morning, Sherlock was fairly sure that Molly wouldn't want to see him again and his brother would have him take all the blame. The fact that Mycroft had summoned him to the manor so that Molly could make her request, and Lady Anthea was there listening to them behind the door, could only mean that his brother believed that Molly's request was legit and Sherlock wouldn't have any reason to refuse. Mycroft even instructed Molly to be civil - why else would she curtsy to him? - expecting that Sherlock would behave accordingly. Only that he was stupid enough to be angered by her _proper behavior_ and insulted her on the spot…

'Ah! Stupid, stupid!' he growled, tugging hard on his hair and deliberately dropping backward onto the ground, uncaring of the blow at the back of his head.

 _If I just held back my temper and granted her whatever she wanted, then she would have come home with me by now,_ he thought sadly, as he came to realize.

Yet again, the entire notion of having Molly's mother living with them in the same house made Sherlock feel uneasy. He had never known what it was like to have a mother in his life. And Lady Margaret was always very distant to him. When he had been a guest in Molly's house he would avoid her as much as possible. And ever since Molly told him that her mother had men chopped down the cherry tree in her gardens because he and Molly had climbed onto it once, Sherlock knew for a fact that the lady would never approve…almost everything he kept under his roof. Why would Molly want her to live with them? Surely she knew how many alchemist devices he kept in the cellar. If she had ever been there and see…Only that she hadn't.

Molly had never been to his house. Lady Anthea forbade it. In the early days Sherlock hadn't known why, nor had he consider it a bother. He had only complained it once when he was scolded by his sister-in-law after Molly went to knock on his door because he forgot their visit time. He couldn't understand why Molly wouldn't just come inside whenever he was busy in the cellar. But he remembered Molly was so much more upset than he was, kept apologizing and saying she shouldn't have gone to him by herself. That was the first time he saw her so distressed, and the last time he missed their arranged visits…before things began to fall apart.

Such memory made him snorted bitterly with a laugh. Rolling to his side, Sherlock put his head on a lump of wet grass, feeling slightly relieved as the dampness cooling down the warm feeling on the nape of his neck. He sighed and glanced through the weeds before his eyes. The sky became even brighter than a moment ago, and the clouds looked like the grinning face of Mary Watson, mocking at him for whatever she saw.

 _Better stop thinking about Molly,_ Sherlock decided silently. After all, if she didn't want anything to do with him, then why would he care that much about her?

But again, as he sat up to look at the walnut grove at the near end of the field, the awfully heavy sensation loaded in his chest made it very clear that he was just lying to himself.

And he loathed himself for it.

o0o

o0o0o0o0o

Molly dashed onto the blade of grass once she jumped down from the wooden fence. The soft soil splashed on her gown and instantly dampened her boots but she didn't really care. The air in the field felt right, slightly chilly and full of the scents. All she wanted at the moment was to run off the tension in her head caused by the cry. It had been months since she had come to this field. She had expected it to feel differently given that she'd been gone for so long. But it didn't. The smell of the grass mixing with the humid air was exactly what she'd expected. It lightened her up, pushing her to run faster despite the winds sipping through her collar, making her shiver.

She slowed down, after the ground beneath her feet began to feel softer. She was now in the middle of the field. The hills at the far end became clearer in view as she trotted forward. Glancing around the greens, she was slightly disappointed that there weren't much of the wildflowers in sight. The snow thawed somewhat later than usual this year. And this summer wasn't exactly warm as most people wished. As far as she could tell it may need another two weeks before the ground would even start to become flowery. Sighing frustratingly, Molly bent down to look at a small clump of hardly noticeable blue squills, breaking through the earth ahead of the rest of its kind.

'You're odd.' she said to the flowers, before bursting into laughter, as she realized she'd just becoming serious toward a tuft of grass. Cousin Anthea would laugh at her too if she ever knew that Molly cared so much about some random flowers in the field. Her cousin never gave much thought about flowers…

That thought made her laughed again. Standing up and shaking her head, Molly breathed out a long sigh and decided to leave the flowers be. Anthea didn't care about flowers. Molly knew her cousin only asked her to pick something so that it would cheer her up.

'Flowers delight you, it seems.' All of a sudden, a hoarse but familiar voice came from the thick lump of grass behind her. Immediately seized Molly at the spot. She turned, fingers clenched tightly in front of her stomach, taking in the tall figure standing not far away from her.

'Sherlock,' she said, pressing her lips together to prevent her voice from shaking.

'Molly,' he whispered and moved forward, stepping one of his legs ahead, a smirk hanging at the corner of his mouth. Molly couldn't help but draw back. The man she knew as her husband seemed entirely different from this morning. Still dressing in his usual dark cotehardie, he was covered with wet dirt and grass. The top fastening around his neck was loosened and she could see a few buttons were missing. Swallowing hard, it was the first time she had never seen Sherlock looking so… _improper_. And his collarbones almost looked as sharp as his cheeks…

'It's Margaret to you!' Biting out a near shrink, Molly felt her cheeks burning up. She planted her heels hard into the soft ground, keeping herself from backing away. There was no way she would be the weak one and ran away from his presence after this morning. She just wouldn't.

'Fine, _little_ Margaret,' he said flatly, eyes still fixed on her as a prick pinning down a dying moth. Molly began to shiver. The air in the field now felt exceptionally cold despite her burning cheeks and neck.

'What are you doing out here?' she asked, dropping a step backward, unconsciously circling her arms around herself to brace from the chilly winds. A sneeze escaped and she saw Sherlock's gaze narrowed upon that. She hadn't put on her cape when she left Anthea. And now she had met the consequence.

'It's too cold for you. Why aren't you in a cape?' he chided her. His tone sounded almost like sneering. Molly found her head jerked up.

'That's none of your concern!' she said, staring up at him as he moved even closer.

'It is,' he answered as he stopped, towering in front of her. The smell of sweat and dirt on his chest hit Molly like the hot winds in late summer. She gasped as she realized they were only inches apart before she stumbled to back away.

'Don't.' Promptly he grabbed her right arm and leap forward to block her way as Molly began to walk back. She held her breath as Sherlock refused to let go.

'Sherlock-'

'Don't,' he said again, still standing in front of her, blocking her while Molly tried to pull back her hand and bypass him. 'Don't you walk away like-'

'Or what?!' Molly snapped 'What can you do? Just let me go!' Raising another arm, she pushed hard on his shoulder, only to have him grab her wrist, making her lose her balance on the soft soil and stumble.

'Ah!' Molly called out as she fell forward and being caught in Sherlock's arms. Glaring up at him, she angrily hissed a protest but found her voice disappeared at the tip of her tongue, as his lips seized hers while her feet still wobbled on the muddy ground, giving her no choice but to close her eyes and brace herself against his chest.

With a deep and satisfactory moan, he whirled her around and nudged her down onto the dryer ground nearby. Molly was stunned when she felt her back landed on the thick, lush grass, and bewildered, even more, when she felt his cool, slightly wet palms on her face, sliding downward to her shoulders then moved to the back of her neck, pulling her once again to his lips for another kiss, then another, and then another…

Raising up a clenched fist, she wanted to push him away, but her arms acted against her own mind, wrapping tightly around Sherlock's shoulders. She could feel him smiling against her lips before he circled his arms around her waist and rolled them both over, pulling her on top of him and grabbing the back of her head for another searing kiss.

She moaned and winced as she heard the sound of their teeth hit together. The dull pain made her tighten her grasp to pinch his arm. He responded with a muffled growl and invaded her mouth even more violently. Sharp metallic taste dripping through their joined tongues, immediately made her eyes snap open. Pulling away from him, Molly panted as she slowly focused, taking in the traces of blood and a small wound at his top lip. Swallowing the bloody taste down her throat, she found herself hooked by his darkened eyes. Such color she had never seen in his gaze.

But before she could look closer, all of a sudden Sherlock pushed her onto her side and this time pressed her directly down. His chest below those beautiful collarbones was burning to her touch, and the kiss they exchanged soon turned from tentative nibbles to actual bites. Molly sucked the salty cut on his lip angrily, as she felt him draw and nibble on her face. Sherlock hissed and backed away, glaring at her with an expression Molly had never seen. She was almost about to apologize but suddenly he was on her again. His hands were pulling at the string lacing the very top opening of her gown and within a few tugs, Molly heard the thread break. She braced her hands tightly against his chest as she felt her pressed knees were knocked slightly open. The feverish warmth beneath his hose pinned her hips firmly in place. Underneath the soft fabric of her gown, Molly felt a surge of unspeakable tides rushing from her lower abdomen to the exact spot where Sherlock's bulge pushed against. She couldn't help but lose her focus. Her ears and the nape of her neck was inflamed and her bracing hands on his chest were weakening. The scent of wet dirt and grass mixing with the spike of _him_ held her completely enthralled like an eagle clawing its prey. Closing her eyes, Molly opened her mouth to allow his smooth tongue to slide through her teeth, wondering if she could just melt into all these sensations, his weight, his warmth, his touch, and…

'Ouch!' A sharp pain on her breast hit her like a thunder and drew her mind back to the present. Jerking up from the damp field Molly slapped away the eager hand cupping her breast and immediately kicked and pushed him away. Picking herself up from the ground, she stumbled backward, the throbbing ache in her breast blurring her sight. She heard Sherlock run up to her, pulling her crossed arms from behind but Molly slapped him off again.

'Don't touch me,' she shouted, holding the top of her gown with both hands, for the string fastening her collars was nowhere to be seen. Tears brimmed slowly in her eyes. Mother never told her how to ease the swelling pain of her breasts after her monthly curse began. She was told to bind them with strips of cloth by some maids, but that was never comfortable. Never had anyone told her that it would hurt so much when they were touched by…

'Molly…'

'It's Margaret to you!' she said with a sob, looking down at her mud-tainted clothes. It was completely ruined and Molly was certain Anthea wouldn't appreciate it…especially with the lack of fastening. 'Look what you've done-'

'Oh, seriously?' A sneer appeared on Sherlock's sweated face. Molly raised her eyebrows as she saw another snort escaped him. 'Don't pretend you didn't enjoy it, _Margaret_. Not when you are still blushed from our…Ugh!'

He didn't have a chance to finish whatever he had under that smug tongue before Molly reached out and pushed him on the shoulders. Stepping backward, he immediately raised his hand and grabbed Molly's wrist but soon let go when she kicked him on his shin, making him topple back on the grass. Molly shivered a little upon seeing him fall, fearing the consequences of pushing her _husband_ down to the ground.

So she turned away, holding her collar together and running fast, ignoring the calls of her name - 'Molly, Molly wait!'- from behind as the chilly winds dried up the unshed tears at the corners of her eyes.


	4. The Hare

**Chapter 4 The Hare**

Cousin Anthea was exactly as disgruntled as Molly had expected her to be when she saw Molly storming through the kitchen, and almost knocking down a kitchen maid on her way, before she was about to run up to the stairs. Of course, the state of her gown didn't escape the mistress's eyes, as Molly stammered and lied how she had a fall in the field. The lady of the house chided her with a high pitched tone and thereafter dragged her into her own living room, where she made others close the door after clean water and extra clothes were brought.

As soon as they were alone, Anthea sat her down and began to really _ask_ her what had happened in the field by pointing out _everything_ she'd seen. The dirt and grass in her hair. The mud stains on her gown, the dried tears and traces of blood on her face…not to mention swelling and bite marks at her lower lip and the loss of her collar fastening…

'Who did this?' she demanded, lifting Molly's chin up with both hands. Her slightly sided head told Molly that she already had the guilty one in mind.

'No one. I told you I fell on the ground!'

'Repeatedly? Forward and backward?' she pointed to the mud on both sides of her dress. 'And you didn't fall on your knees _at all_?' Glancing down at the lower skirt of Molly's gown, Anthea stared at her.

'No, I…' Molly murmured, feeling blood rushing up to her face. She tried to back away. But it was almost impossible given Anthea was sitting nearby.

'Why did you fall so many times?'

'I…I was…' Molly began to stammer, staring down her folded hands.

'Pushed?'

'Chased by a _rabbit!_ ' she blurted out, immediately bit on her tongue.

Anthea's eyes widened. 'A rabbit?' she repeated.

'No..no! A hare!' Molly heard herself uttering.

'A hare _chased_ you?' Flatly, Anthea asked. 'And the blood and swelling on your lips were…'

'He bounced over… and...and bit me!'

' _He_?' She raised one of her eyebrows, a twitched at the corner of her lips told Molly that her cousin was far from convinced. She looked away, face burning from embarrassment, blushing almost as much as when she was kissed by Sherlock when he pinned her to the ground…

'How do you know that hare was a _he_ , Molly?' Anthea breathed in before she asked, clearing her throat at the same time. Molly's palms started to feel wet.

' _It_ was a very big hare…and…' she stammered, trying to look away. 'I stepped into its hole. He must have thought I was a snack…or…'

'A snake, hun?' her cousin hummed. Molly looked back as her cousin once again examined her face and arms, then her gown. 'Or maybe to him you were a weasel. Take off your clothes.'

Molly fidgeted at the request. 'Wh-what?' she asked.

'I have to make sure _he_ didn't hurt you other than…these!' she sighed looked upon Molly's face. 'And you need to change no matter what. Undress.'

Molly didn't move. 'I'm fine, Anthea.'

Her cousin sighed again, looking up and down at her for a moment, before she took out a kerchief from her sleeve, soaking it in the water by the side table then starting to wipe Molly's face clean. 'But you were crying,' she said quietly, frowning at the darken blood stains on the cloth. 'Hmm,... isn't that hare intriguing? He must have bitten himself before he bit you because your skin isn't broken but there is still blood…'

'I…I did kick pretty hard, though…'Molly mumbled under the rubs. Her cousin's moves stopped as she gave Molly an almost expressionless look, then gestured Molly to stand up to take off her gown and undergarment, looking closely at her before Molly began to put on the clean clothes.

'You kicked at the hare?' she asked, as Molly's head was covered by the smooth undergarment pulling down. Molly moaned, murmuring something similar as a 'yes', trying to avoid Anthea's question.

'So, you kicked the hare before he bit you? Or the hare bit you first?'

'…Does it really matter?' Pulling the green long dress down her torso, Molly struggled as the fabric caught on her braid.

'Well, you have about seven… or more bite marks on your lips and face. I just want to know how many jumps did that animal take to inflict so many damages.'

Molly found her jaw tightened. She looked up at Anthea and began to…

A loud _knock_ echoed at the door. Molly turned to look over her shoulder, as Anthea granted the entrance. With a crack, Sally pushed in. A large wooden bowl was in her hands.

'The broth for Lady Margaret, my lady?'

'Leave it there.' Anthea nodded at her, pointing to the side table before she frowned. 'That's a lot of soup, Sally. Didn't I say I just need-'

'Oh, You may as well have a cup? It really doesn't make a difference for me to cook more. It's nice and warm.' Sally grinned and winced while she produced two cups from her pocket and handed them to Anthea. She sighed, turning around to filled the two cups, giving one of them to Molly and settling herself down to have a small sip.

'I hope you didn't bring too much attention, dear Sally. You know my condition is not yet to be told.'

Sally laughed and shrugged, fixing her gaze at Molly while shaking her head. 'Most of the talks, for now, are about how little Lady Margaret fell into a wallow in the open field, my lady. So, I don't suppose-'

'But I didn't -' Molly gaped as she protested. But cousin Anthea simply gave her a pat at her lap.

'You certainly didn't, my dear.' The lady of the house cleared her throat while looking up at Sally. 'She didn't fall in a wallow. That would be foolish! Do make sure those kitchen lots understand, Sally.'

'I certainly will.' Sally nodded.

'Little Lady Margaret was chased and bitten nonstop by a beastly buck hare in the field when she accidentally stepped into his hole and was mistaken as a snake. She is still in a state of shock. So I don't want any talk being heard in this household. Could you make sure of that?'

'Yes, of course. Would that be all, my ladies?' Sally asked as she went to pick up Molly's ruined gown and undergarment on the empty chair, giving Molly a wide smile while walking past.

'Ugh…not just yet! Do you happen to know Gregory's whereabouts?' Anthea said as she adjusted herself in the chair, giving Sally a wide knowing grin.

'I just saw him near the back yard before coming up.'

'Good. Then make sure you tell him exactly as I say. Little Lady Margaret was attacked by a buck hare in the field. So, I don't care what he and his men are doing right now. Go grab the crossbows or whatever they need in the armory and hunt those beasts down-'

'What?!' Molly exclaimed, mouth opened as she looked up at her cousin with a tug on her sleeve. But Anthea ignored her by pushing her hand away. 'Cousin, please…No!'

'I want them on the kitchen table before this evening. Do you believe that's possible, my dear Sally?'

'Of course, my lady. Daylight is long at this time of year.' The chief maidservant gave them a big grin. 'Oh, and since you mention hunting, if I may-'

'You're certainly allowed to join them, my dear.' Anthea's voice was almost like singing. Sally laughed out loud as she bid them goodbye before disappearing behind the door. Molly kept her head low the whole time until the cup of broth in her hand began to cool down.

'You don't have to hunt those rabbits down, cousin Anthea,' she whispered. Her own ears could hardly pick up the weak voice she made.

'But you were chased and bitten. Finish the broth.' The lady of the house lifted her chin and gulped from her cup.

'I…' Molly groaned, swallowing down the salty liquid, staring at the slightly murky broth in her cup.

'Hmm?' Anthea hummed as she kept on gulping, wiping her mouth with her sleeve as she finished. 'Is there anything wrong with your cup of broth, Molly?'

'No,' Molly mumbled, taking another sip.

'Good. Finish what's in your cup and go brush the dirt and grass out of your hair. And after you do all of this, come to see me at my writing desk,' she said as she stood up, looking into the wooden bowl by the side table then leaving her cup there. Molly couldn't help but raise her voice.

'Why?' she asked.

'Because I'm going to send an invitation to your mother and I need you to write in the postscript.' Anthea beamed at her, as she turned to leave the room, leaving Molly gaping at what she'd heard while the cracks of the door still resounding.

o0o

o0o0o0o0o

'I must say, my dear-' Mycroft spoke up while his mouth was still half full. Anthea lowered the knife in her hand as she heard her husband's voice from the other side of the table.

'Yes, husband?'

'It's a little too early to see game in our supper at this time of year.' His smile was blurry under the flickering light in the dining room as he spoke. Anthea smiled back.

'Indeed, it is,' she answered before taking a sip of her ale and couldn't resist grinning against the cup she was holding. She always enjoyed dining quietly with her husband, pity such chances were rarely given.

'The fuss you made today was quite unnecessary, wouldn't you agree? I believe for the following week the only talk in the town will be how our little cousin was attacked by…the beastly _buck hares_ in the field. And since when do these kind of animals become so aggressive?' the master of the house asked distractedly, looking down at the table with his knife picking up another piece of the tenderly cooked game.

'I have no idea, my love. Those beasts in the fired are never my concern. But as you are well aware, little Molly never lies unless she has a very good reason. So, naturally, I took her word for it.'

'Naturally.' Mycroft nodded, swallowing down while looking at his wife.

Anthea gave him another smile, waiting for him to speak again.

'Poor little cousin must still be in shock, mustn't she? You're right to invite her mother after such a morning. Although…I do hope you'd inform me before you decided to send the invitation.'

'Oh, forgive me, my love. I merely wished to comfort little Molly from the ordeal she had to endure today, first being insulted by Sherlock…then being chased and bitten by the hares in the field,' she took in a deep breath, shaking her head and knowing that her husband was watching. 'Could you imagine how dreadful it must have been for her?'

'Ah! Our poor girl. I suppose this is why she is nowhere to be seen? How was she before she retired?'

'Poor appetite, I'm afraid,' Anthea sighed quietly, glancing down at the cooked hare on her platter. Molly had been particularly upset when she heard they were to have game as evening supper. But she refused to tell Anthea why simply stated that she had to go to bed early.

'I was hoping to see her this evening and apologize on behalf of my foolish brother. I do hope Sherlock and those _buck hares_ didn't break her spirits.'

'Not at all! She didn't just stand there and let him had his way this morning, as I'm sure you have already been told, my love. In fact, I believe Molly had kicked Sherlock pretty hard after their…um…shall we say… _encounter_. There were talks about Sherlock had to go to his friend John Watson to have his leg tended before dusk. So I suppose that-'

'I had heard of those _talks_ as well, my dear. But what I was told was that Sherlock claimed he had a fall a rock in the field earlier today.'

'Oh! I don't know there's such difference. That's just what it is with the _talks_ , I'm afraid.'

'Indeed.' Mycroft chuckled as he took another bite from his knife, then sighed after he turned to reach the cup by the side.

'What is it, my love?' Anthea asked, raising her eyebrows.

'Nothing, my dear. Only that I feel somehow weary thinking about our little brother and sister. You'd expect them to resolve whatever disputes they may have after being together for so many years. But instead, they still quarrel like children.'

'Perhaps that's because they _are_ still children.'

'I'm afraid you are right,' Mycroft murmured as he sat back in his chair, a position which only appeared when he was trying to ask her opinion.

Anthea hid her smirk, sitting back in her chair as well. Her hands folded on her stomach, waiting for her husband to figure out what he had in mind.

'I only hope that,' with a sigh, Mycroft spoke up. 'They can settle their arguments before Molly's mother arrives. Though I begin to doubt if it is even possible, given their behavior today.'

'Ah,' Anthea responded. 'I don't believe you need to be over worried about that, though.' She let out a small mirth.

'How so?' Mycroft grinned back, leaning forward to look into her, folding his hands under his chin.

'It's really not that complicated. No matter how they both claim, the fact is they do care for each other. So I suggest just let them be for the time being. But if you really wish them to reconcile quickly…' she paused, lowering her head to conceal her smile.

'Yes, my dear?'

'If _we_ wish them to reconcile quickly, I believed the best way is to make a chance for one of them to _willingly give in_ to the other, for they are both very strong-headed at the moment.'

Mycroft's gaze lowered as he brooded on her suggestion. 'Humm…I see what you mean. But chances like such rely on given circumstances. For now, I'd say it's almost impossible.'

'Chances could be made. And we still have time before my cousin Margaret arrives. And in the worst case…' she bit her lip to withhold a laugh.

'In the worst case, my dear?' Mycroft raised his voice slightly, clearly amused.

'If there's no chance at all, in the worst case all we need to do is to lock them both in the dungeon so they will come out with many babies.' Turning her face away, Anthea pursed her lips as laughter burst out at the other side of the table, before she glanced back at her husband to join him in the most hysterical laugh she had had in months.

o0o

o0o0o0o

Standing by the guest in his own home, John Watson, the town's physician, was concerned.

If he had to be completely honest, then concerned might have been an understatement. Ever since he began to work alongside the Holmes' younger master Sherlock, he had never been free from worry. But this time it was definitely different. And if he hadn't known any better, such bizarre circumstances would probably drive him livid. For, his strange friend had been, since his arrival, silently sitting there staring at Mary's breasts as she fed their daughter at the other side of the room.

'In the name of all the saints and holy… _John_!?' Mary hissed as she cast him a dangerous glare from the chair she was sitting by little Mary's cradle. Her eyes almost disappeared under those tangled eyebrows. 'Do something! He's been like this since you let him in. Kick him out or I'll do it myself! Then we'll see if he's the only one being battered!'

'Isn't that what I'm trying?' John rolled up his eyes as he pushed on his friend's shoulder. But Sherlock simply kept still like he was fully consumed in a mystery, eyes fixing on the suckling infant's lips in front of Mary's half-exposed chest.

The physician sighed, clearing his throat before raising his voice.

'Sherlock,' he called, walking over to stand next to his seated friend, arms holding across.

No response.

'Sherlock,' he tried again, this time somewhat louder, noticing that Mary winced as the child began to stir.

Still silence.

'SHERLOCK!'

The baby shrieked before the young master looked up. Mary groaned and glared at him, as she then turned away, standing up and starting to walk around, trying to calm their daughter down.

John frowned at his expressionless friend as he finally noticed him and removed his gaze - that was because Mary was walking away- then looked up at him.

'You've been very _helpful,_ John. Look how distressed you've made of our little Mary!' The seated man remarked with a smirk. John found a hiss escape his gritted teeth. In the old days, he'd probably spit back, but not now. Not when his wife was so close to becoming _murderous_ with their screaming child in her arms.

'Shut up, Sherlock. It's all your fault in the first place.'

'I wasn't the one who shouted, was I?' the young master simply snorted. John rolled his eyes again as he took over the wailing baby from Mary so that she could fasten her clothes back in place. The husband and wife stared at each other for a while -little Mary bawling in John's arms-, before they turned to face their ludicrous friend.

'Why are you here, Sherlock?' Mary asked, folding her arms across, reading the young man up and down with narrowed eyes. 'The bruise on you shin was taken care of yesterday. So what brings you here?'

'More specifically, why did you stare at Mary like that today? Don't tell me you were just _observing_. You'd seen her nursing several times and it had never caught your attention. Why are you interested now?' John asked as he gently rocked his baby girl against his chest.

'I'm not interested,' their friend sneered as he spoke. 'Just curious.'

'About what?' Mary breathed in and asked, looking aside to see the baby slowing calming down.

'Do your breasts hurt while being suckled by the baby?' Sherlock leaned forward and stippled his hands under his chin when he asked. Mary frowned at the question.

'Uh, no,' she answered and cast John a suspicious glance. John shook his head, looking back at her.

'Are you sure?' The young master's low voice raised again as if he wasn't convinced. Mary closed her eyes firmly.

' _Yes,_ ' she said, turning to John to take back the baby, who finally began to stop sobbing. Almost.

'Because you play with swords and recently gave birth,' their seated friend continued to reason, his gazes weren't entirely focused. 'So it's possible your tolerance of pain is…'

'I know what pain feels like, Sherlock.' Mary hissed through her teeth as she kept on rocking the baby, deliberately staring at the other side of the room to prevent herself from lashing out. But Sherlock seemed entirely oblivious to her annoyance as he resumed…

'So,' he sat back into the chair and continued to stare. 'Your breasts don't hurt when you're nursing.'

'No,' Mary answered flatly, then walked back to her chair by the cradle and carefully placed their baby in. John held his breath while he saw Mary stretch her arms in her seat, relieved that their daughter seemed to be finally settled.

'And, 'Sherlock continued seeming unsatisfied. 'Do they hurt when John's touching?'

'What kind of question is that?' Without a thought, John found himself exclaiming. Mary shot him an icy glare and he immediately bit his tongue. Luckily little Mary simply stirred a bit before she calmed down. But it was enough to make Mary frown again. Only that this time, there was more concern than annoyance when she turned and stared at their friend.

'Why do you want to know this, Sherlock?' she asked.

'Just tell me, Mary. Do they hurt while being touched?'

'No. Now answer me. Why do you ask?' Mary leaned back into her chair, casting John a concerned look as she waited for the response. But Sherlock merely looked down at his lap as if he was thinking. John sighed silently and exchanged a nervous look with Mary before she shook her head and asked again.

'Sherlock, why did you ask me these questions?'

'Nothing. I'm just curious,' he muttered as he remained head down. But John could see his expression become somehow grimmer, more frustrated, just like he came to them yesterday and asked for ointment for the bruise on his leg. But yesterday he and Mary didn't think much when Sherlock claimed he had fallen on a rock in the field. Everyone in the town had been talking about the _ferocious fight_ between Sherlock and Molly. So they just assumed his silence was caused by the argument earlier the day.

But apparently, there had been more than that.

'Is it something to do with Molly-'

'I'm leaving,' he curtly cut off Mary's question short, leaping from his seat to head towards the front door. John immediately tried to stop him but Sherlock walked past. Mary called out quietly but he ignored her, too. Stopping at the door, the young master tentatively pushed the cracking thick wooden plank open so that it wouldn't wake the baby up. Yet before he could step into the front gardens, suddenly a call over the fence made him withdraw back inside.

'Good day!' the caller cheerfully sang. John couldn't help but open his mouth, staring at the intruder who was passing the fence without even asking, then just walking through their threshold into the front door.

'Sally?' the physician looked at the woman who fluently made the entrance into his home, as Sherlock tensed up next to him. His friend had never gotten along well with Sally, Lady Anthea's chief maidservant. When she first came to the town with Lady Anthea a decade ago, she had pulled the urchins on the streets - including Sherlock the younger master - onto her lap and spanked them into obedience. As the result, she'd won the respect from the grown-ups who'd witnessed it, and the reverence from the children whom she'd spanked, except, of course, for Sherlock's.

'What are you doing here?'

'Oh, here you are. _Master Sherlock_. I'm looking for you!' She lifted her chin up and greeted Sherlock with a wide grin before she turned and nodded at Mary.

'What does my sister want now? If she sent you to summon me to her presence then I'd have to disappoint you, _Sally_. I'm not in the mood of being-'

'Don't fret! That's not what I'm coming for.' She laughed out loud, giggling as Sherlock's gaze darkened. John let out a long sigh then turned around to see Mary slowly standing up. It was then he'd notice that Sally had dropped a large sack in her hand.

'Mary! You look well if I must say! How's your baby?' She blinked and smiled as Mary approached. But Sherlock snorted with a laugh before interrupting.

'She's fed and asleep, Sally,' he bit through his teeth then snorted again. 'And you are disturbing them. Say what you want and make haste!' the young master demanded.

' _Fine._ ' Sally shrugged with a broad smile, completely unmoved by Sherlock's harsh tone. Quickly and steadily, she untied the sack in her hand and grabbed out what was inside - a two-foot-long furry dead animal - shoving it directly under Sherlock's nose. 'Here! My lady instructed that I must deliver this _into your hands_. So take it!'

But Sherlock didn't move. 'A hare,' he said. 'Why does my sister send me a-'

'No,' Sally shook her head, looking firmly at the young master. 'It's a _buck hare_.'

'I can see that!' Sherlock stepped back in disgust, looking at the dangling lower part of the dead animal, the feed of the hare swaying as Sally held it up right in front of Sherlock's face.

'My lady said it's best that you have the biggest one. After all, these animals chased and bit poor little Lady Molly so hard that she hasn't recovered from the shock until now.'

'What?' Sherlock's voice suddenly pitched. John and Mary exchanged a confused look.

'Ugh…Molly was what?' Mary asked.

'Oh, you haven't heard?' Sally blinked at them, slightly surprised. 'The little lady went to a walk in the field yesterday around noon after the…' She paused and glared at Sherlock, the dead animal still held still in her hand. '… _disagreement_ with Master Sherlock. My lady expected her to spend the rest of the day there as she always does. But she came back within no time and was covered with dirt and grass. Wouldn't say a thing until we calmed her down. And then she told my lady that…'

'She was chased and bitten by… _hares_?' Mary sided her head in disbelief.

'No,' Sally tilted and shook her head. 'Not hares. One big buck hare was what she said. But…as you can see my lady didn't care that much when she ordered us to hunt these animals down. And she said that _Master Sherlock_ should have the biggest one.' She smiled at Mary before returning her attention to Sherlock, frustratingly breathing in. 'Now, would you just take it so that I can get out of your sight, _young master_?'

Sherlock pouted and groaned in his throat, then slowed reached out to grab behind the furry head of the hare, wincing at the broken arrow penetrating through its skull.

'I shot this one, by the way,' Sally cheerfully added, then heading towards the entrance. 'Good day! Come visit us with your baby when you're feeling better, Mary? We can do with more company these days.'

And with that, she was gone, leaving Sherlock standing there holding the big dead hare in front of his face, until he finally sensing the unusual lengthy silence and looking up to them.

'Um…John, do you think you'd like to take this…'

' _What…'_ Mary asked through her gritted teeth. '…did you do you Molly out in the field, Sherlock? No. Don't you try to distract us with that dead hare. Just tell me. _What have you done?_ '


	5. The Market

**Part V The Market**

The central marketplace was filled with the scent of sweets as tradesmen slowly unloaded barrels and barrels of dried fruit, honey coated succade and nuts from the handcarts and laid them out in display. Beside the casks of sweet treats, stands were put out to exhibit precious stones, jewels, glasses, exotic feathers and colourful fabrics. Around the market square, guards hired by the traveling merchants as long as the men belonged to the house of Holmes were chatting casually about weathers and recent news from their travels. Most of the merchants and the guards were familiar faces to the people in town. So even though the market square was closed for the time being, curious crowds had already began to gather and exchange gossips, as they waited to see the goods of the season.

But among the patiently waiting crowd one voice impatiently stood out.

'What do you mean he can't go inside? That's ridiculous, Greg!' Outside the circled market square, John Watson, the town's physician, exclaimed in disbelief. Standing next to him was the younger master of the Holmes, who remained silent but glared intensely of the family's steward, as the older man explained to them that it was his brother's order to keep the market clear from anyone while Lady Anthea made her visit.

'The privilege of preemption belongs to the family, _Graham_ , As I'm fairly certain you are aware given your decades of service to my family. You can't deny my entry-'

'Oh! Since when do you begin to care about the summer fair-'

'-Even if I just want to _loiter_ , which I can assure you, I don't!' the young master spit out the last word with a sniff.

Gregory the senior steward sighed heavily. His expression softened but still refused to back down.

'I can't, Sherlock. Sorry. Your brother's instruction was very specific. No disturbance of any kind when her ladyship comes to the market. If you need anything you'll have to wait. I'm sure Lady Anthea won't mind to have you around. But there's nothing I can do for you now.' With that, he gave Sherlock and John a curt nod, before returned to his duty, leaving them standing among the whispering crowds.

The young master let out a snort.

'Well, thanks for the wise but unfeasible advice, John,' said Sherlock, as he sheered away from the market square, annoyingly pushing through the gawking people.

'As you can see, acquiring something presentable to please my wife isn't quite an option. Not when I can't see the goods before my sister. Besides, from what I could see beyond _Gavin_ 's shoulders, hardly anything there would intrigue Molly.'

Shaking his head, Sherlock sighed then turned to look back at his friend. When John first suggested that Sherlock should bring Molly something at their next meeting and _apologize_ \- as Mary had been urging him for the past two days - the young master simply dismissed the idea. His Molly wasn't the kind to be easily moved by gifts. She had once told Sherlock that she liked the stories he shared better than the trinkets and flowers Lady Anthea kept asking him to prepare. But then he recalled the traveling merchants were to arrive. One of them always brought lenses and gems. When he and Molly hadn't fallen out, she had once told him that she'd never seen an amber with actual bugs trapped inside. For, those she'd been given were always white or crystal clear.

And that was what brought Sherlock to the center square, hoping he could find something as such from the market this year. But to be denied entry before Lady Anthea made it unlikely to get what he wanted even if the merchants did have a gem like that. Because his sister-in-law, despite the strict manner she ran the household, was always very generous when it came to satisfying their curiosity. So if Molly came with her to the market as she usually did, chances were after their visit nothing from the annual fair would interest her because Lady Anthea would just get her whatever she looked at twice.

'You can still find something…I don't know. Maybe some flowers? It doesn't have to be anything grand,' said John with a shrug. But Sherlock simply shook his head again. There were no flowers in the field three days ago.

'How about you just go to her. If you don't feel comfortable going to the manor perhaps you can wait here to see if she'll come with Lady Anthea,' his friend further suggested.

'I don't want to speak to her like this…in public,' the young master sighed, looking away. 'It's just…' he let out a long breath, remembering the last time he'd approached Molly in the town. It didn't go well.

'There will be another time. I…I'm going home now.' Pulling at his hair, Sherlock began to walk away without even looking back to John. But John simply stopped him by grabbing his elbow.

'You will go to her, right?' the older man asked, staring into Sherlock's eyes as he spoke. 'Do not try to run away, Sherlock. I know you too well. You always want to pretend dismissive or uncaring when things don't go as you wish. And look what had this brought you? It has already been three days since your encounter in the field. So far you'd done nothing. _Nothing_. Even after you knew she lied to spare you from the blame- '

'I will go to her, John,' Sherlock protested, swallowing hard. 'Today is just not the day. I don't want to speak to her while my sister and others listening. That's all.'

John frowned at him, before letting go of his arm. 'As you say, Sherlock. It's your own affair. But do keep Mary's word in mind, my friend. Settle this as soon as possible. It's about time that you two put an end to the meaningless disagreement,' John sighed, patting the young master's shoulder before he bid him goodbye, leaving Sherlock alone on the street, wondering what he should do next.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The deafening silence of the night shrouded the empty room as darkness enveloped Molly's vision. Lying underneath the blanket, she carefully turned to her side to reach out and lift up the thick woolen curtain draping from the posters. The pale moonlight shone in with the cool summer breeze, slightly easing the discomfort of her lower body. This was the third night of her cycle and the intense pain had started to slowly fade away, but the swelling of her breasts still kept her aware. The last three days had been the most unpleasant with her cycle hit her unexpectedly right after she finished writing to her mother. And people in the household kept talking about her ordeal with the hares, as they refused to stop making her eat the game captured from the field.

But none of that would compare the sense of loss she had to bear, as she stayed in her chamber most of the time for the past few days. Sally had told her - after Anthea sent her out to deliver the hare before Molly could stop it - that Sherlock wasn't exactly pleased when he received the dead animal in Watson's house. She also told Molly that he'd left the game to the Watsons. For, the physician's house had the scent of grilling coming out after Sherlock went home. And upon hearing that, all Molly wanted was to find somewhere to hide from the rest of the world.

And that was pretty much what she had done so far, confining herself in her chamber to rest, exactly as mother had taught her after she'd started her cycle. Yet while being spared from most people's prying eyes, some of the talk from the town still managed to get into the manor and make it through her door. She had heard that people saying she was chased by _swarms_ of hares and foxes. Every inch of her skin were trampled and bitten so Anthea had to keep her away from the public eyes. And as the result, every single wild life from the field was hunted down by Mycroft's men. So chances were there wouldn't be enough games left for the folks later this year.

Molly would never know why would anyone believe such nonsense. Anthea did ask Gregory's men to shoot down the hares, but the hunt had lasted less than a couple of hours with only five grown ones being brought back. Gregory clearly didn't follow Anthea's order to words, for he had only sent two men with Sally to the open field. But apparently those who could talk didn't need to know that much of the details. All they cared about was the mistress ordered an untimely hunt at this time of year because Molly claimed she'd been attacked. That was all the materials they needed to gossip and Molly couldn't care less about what they came up next.

She only cared about what Sherlock would think.

 _He must find me very stupid_ , she brooded, gazing through her window and noticing the soreness building at the back of her eyes, as tears gradually blurred her vision. Stupid, childish…she recalled what her husband had called her so far, lowering the heavy curtain to let the darkness surround her again. _Not to mention violent and rude!_ She made a face in the dark, remembering how she kicked at his shin before running away that day. What a mess I am! she thought and turned to the other side. No wonder he stopped visiting me after I returned. I should have known.

But then the voices from the field coming through the open window brought her back to that day again. Burying her face into the pillow and wrapping the cover tightly around her body, Molly tried to ignore the scent of lush grass brought into the room by the cool breezes. The sound of Sherlock's low gasps. The kisses dropped on her lips. The warmth she felt when she embraced him…Pulling the blanket over her head, instinctually Molly pressed her legs together, as she thought of her husband's advent gaze. The bitter taste of her tears reminded her of the small wound on his upper lip inflicted by the clash of their teeth. Swallowing down the saltiness, she curled her knees up against her chest, carefully avoiding putting pressure on her breasts, as she drowned herself into the warmness of her bed, closing her eyes to forget the chills on her skin when she was held down against the damp, lush grass, with his face pressing against hers, their lips desperately locking together despite the dull pain of their clashed teeth and the sharp taste of his blood smearing across their faces.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

A fit of giggles burst out at the center of the market square, as a group of young women surrounded a handsome young man by a little stall. On his small velvet decorated vending stand, trinkets and little gems were seen glittering under the bright midday sun. Not too far away from the central market, Sherlock Holmes, the younger master, frowned and gritted his teeth together, while another burst of laughter came from the crowded square. Every year in this time the people in the town would become partly hysterical due to the arrival of the traveling merchants. With the warm sun shining high above, men and women put on their most colorful clothes and, under the encouragement of the merchants, compete with their neighbors by purchasing just to protect their pride.

What a complete waste of time! Sherlock sneered. He never really liked the annual market.

Glancing one last time at the busy market square, the young master turned on his heels to leave, making no effort to disguise the loathing and disappointment on his face. It was the second day of the summer fair and so far Molly hadn't been seen anywhere in the town. Lady Anthea didn't come to the market yesterday as she had initially planned. Talk in the town said that she changed her mind right after she walked through the front gate of the manor, stating that she didn't feel well because the blaze of the sun gave her a terrible headache. As the result, the manor only made the usual purchase this year - sweets and spice for the year, and bolts of valuable cloth - much to the merchants' complaints.

I should probably just go and see what happened. Sherlock thought to himself, unconsciously changing his direction to going to the big house. It wasn't the first time Lady Anthea didn't show up in the annual market. But his sister-in-law was never the kind to change the plan in the last moment and let people wait or work for nothing. And the fact that Molly hadn't been seen for so many days just didn't feel right. Was it possible that they both became ill? Not likely. For he hadn't heard anything from John. And…if Molly was really sick, Sherlock knew that Lady Anthea would at least ask him to send her a small note…

Or maybe they just don't care for this after what had happened…Sherlock brooded, remembering the look Lady Anthea gave him before he left the manor that day. She had already been so angry after he made Molly cry. And, as Molly and John both pointed out, she clearly knew what had really happened between him and Molly out in the field - otherwise, why had she sent the dead hare? Mary had specifically told him that what he did - or tried to do - to Molly could never be appropriate except when they were in a marital bed. He was lucky that Molly hadn't told Lady Anthea the truth. Or else, given the status of the two ladies' family, chances were Lady Anthea may choose to persuade Molly's mother to just take her daughter back and ask for an annulment, as she had done to her previous two husbands before marrying Mycroft.

Which was why Sherlock knew there was no time for him to waste.

Approaching the manor, he felt his stomach turn and twist with each step. What would he say to Molly when he saw her? What should he say if he saw Lady Anthea first? Was it possible that Molly happened to come out from the front gate when he arrived…

Oh, there she was.

Pushing through the front gate of the house, Molly slowly stepped onto the pebble road and turned to the market. The sound coming from the center of the town was exactly as loud as it should be. The festive sounds could be heard even outside the manor. But not much of the joyful atmosphere could be found in the Holmes manor. Because Anthea didn't feel well. She had begun to feel nausea since last evening yet apart from Molly and Mycroft, only a few women in the household were aware of her condition. The rest of the servants only knew that their mistress had confined herself in her chamber, and as they weren't allowed to make much sound to disturb her. But for Molly, her cousin was still her usual self, only a little paler.

'You should go to the market and bring back something before it rains,' she had told Molly earlier in her chamber before turning her away. The clouds in the sky had started to gather soon after midday. And the cooler the air became, the more agitated Anthea appeared to be. She didn't like being confined in her room. Even if she could barely stand up straight.

'Wear a purse in your sleeve. Sally will give you money. It's time for you to learn how to handle coins. Relying on others to charge to the books is just boring.'

'But-' Molly found herself stammering. She had never worn a purse before. Neither had her mother.

'Don't be afraid. You can count. It's not difficult at all,' her cousin sighed, as she leaned back into her patted seat, waving to her distractedly. 'Go on. Go see the market before everything is bought out.'

And that was it. Molly nervously clenched her fists, feeling the weight of the coins in her hidden purse, as she made her way towards to market place. The breeze chased away the warmth of the midday air, almost making her sneeze. Looking around the streets and alleyways, she hummed and tilted her head to the side, trying to decide which path she should take. She was once told that going to a crowded fair alone wouldn't be proper for a girl like her, not to mention carrying coins. A giggle escaped her lips, as she turned and run into an empty lane heading directly to the center of the town. Cousin Anthea wouldn't be unaware of these rules, Molly smiled, as surges of excitement rose up to her heart. Some of the colourful decorations of the center square were seen flying at the end of her path. Nothing could be heard except her loud steps echoing in the narrow lanes and the noise of people gathering afar. She slowed down her steps to stand under the shade of the nearby tree at the end of the alley. The laughter from the crowds made her stomach twitch. Rubbing both hands on her gown, Molly nervously took in a deep breath. She never came to a market with so many strangers around on her own.

She was glad that, at least, if she did anything wrong, Sherlock wouldn't be there to witness it.

The moment Sherlock saw Molly once again after his eyes finally adjusted to the light of the afternoon market, his breath stopped. Standing among the crowd, Molly was smiling to the young man who sold trinkets and gems. The very same man who had the attention of all women in the town when Sherlock visited earlier the day.

Carefully avoiding being seen, he threaded his way through the crowds, staring at the back of the small figure donned in the same cornflower blue gown from last year. The same summer garment looked somewhat different from what he remembered. The curves of her shoulders weren't as conspicuous back then. The sudden tilt of her head showed that she was intrigued by whatever that man had just said. Holding his breath, Sherlock focused and listened mindfully from where he stood. The noises of other people made it impossible for him to make out what they were saying. But he could tell that Molly was giggling. Her eyes fixed on the man who repeatedly tried to divert her attention to the gems he was selling. Such unpleasant manner should be dismissed by her right away but, to Sherlock's horror, Molly didn't seem to mind it at all. Instead, she kept on talking to him after he took out other more valuable stones, never looking away from him as he spoke. A few moments had past and Sherlock began to feel that he wasn't the only one staring at them. At least half of the market were whispering, as Molly burst into another giggle following the man's another meaningless joke.

Enough was enough.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock launched himself to push through the crowds blocking between him and the small stall. The first two men he knocked away spit and growled but soon backed down once they recognized him. Another group of people ranted loudly as they were forced to yield their way. But just as he was about to reach the inner circle of the market, all of the sudden Sherlock was grabbed by the shoulders and shoved away from the crowd.

'What the-' hissing through his gritted teeth, the young master tore his gaze away from the center square, snapping angrily toward whoever it was who dared to handle him in such way…

'Oh, nice to see you too, Sherlock,' _Gavin_ said flatly, turning him around then giving him another push to face the glare of his brother. His face was almost unrecognizable under the broad rim of his hat.

'Mycroft,' Sherlock mumbled and looked away. He didn't expect to see his brother here.

'What do you think you're doing?' the master's surprised voice was exactly as Sherlock had expected.

'I was just-' Sherlock felt his breath hitched. 'That's none of your concern.'

'It is if you want to make a scene, Sherlock,' Mycroft sniffed. 'The merchants only come once a year. What do you think they'd say to the next town if you embarrass yourself in front of them? What do you think they'd say about little Margaret if you _humiliate_ her in the way you were about to? Her mother is to arrive within a month. The last thing I need from you is - '

'Her mother?' Sherlock heard himself blurting out. 'Why is her mother coming here?'

'Why indeed,' his brother snorted and glanced at him for the last time, before he shook his head dismissively. 'Stay away from the market, Sherlock.'

'But Molly…she…' Sherlock couldn't help but look towards the market. Molly was no longer there.

'You heard me, little brother. Stay away from here. Now go,' waving Sherlock away, the master turned and left the center square. Sherlock blinked, as his brother and his men disappeared around the corner, feeling his palms begin to sweat. Why didn't anyone tell him that Molly's mother was to visit them? Why did Mycroft refuse to answer him directly when he asked? Did it mean Molly was going to leave like Mary had warned?

Returning his gaze back to the market, Sherlock looked through crowds and felt his heart sinking, as he saw Molly once again. She was slowly making passage through the people to the other side of the square. Her hands were still empty. It seemed that she didn't purchase anything from that man after all. Was it possible that she asked her mother to come here because she wanted to leave? Would she tell him if he asked her now?

His question was answered immediately as Molly suddenly turned back to look across the market place, staring straight at him in the eyes. Her jaw dropped when she recognized him from the distance. With another flinch she quickly looked away, picking up her dress then running into the nearby lane.

(TBC)


	6. The Fight

Hello, everyone! I'm back :D

First things first, I apology about the shitty edit of the last chapter. I only found out I didn't edit it properly when I tried to post this chapter. I'm so sorry :(

But now it'd been fixed. At last!

Now, this chapter is a bit frustrated for Sherlock. And there's **wank!lock**. So, be warn.

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 **Chapter 6 The Fight**

Sky rumbled dully over the roof of the solid stone house, sending small tremors under the wooden ceiling. Lying in his own bed, Sherlock Holmes, the sixteen years of age younger master, couldn't fall asleep.

Humid air kept sipping through his window, as he tossed and turned under the blanket, trying to shake off the frustration building within his stomach after visiting the market. But no matter how hard he tried, he was unable to forget the startled look Molly gave him when she realized he was looking at her through the busy square. How could he, though? When his own wife clearly scared by his presence before she turned and ran away, while all he wanted to do was to tell her how much he missed her?

How could she behave so dreaded upon seeing him, while only days ago they'd kissed with the fiercest passion in the sunny field? Was it true that she was offended, as Mary had suggested, by the impropriety of what had happened in the open field? If so, then why did she lie to Mycroft and Lady Anthea by saying it was a buck hare that had attacked her instead of just spilling out the truth? Was it because she didn't want him to be reprimanded as he already had been? But why would she care if she was about to ask her mother to come and collect her, leaving the Holmes estate for good? Was it because she didn't want to leave any ill sentiment before they parted?

Was it the real reason she ran away from him today?

A muffled cough escaped from his throat. Sitting up from the pillow, Sherlock felt wetness dripping down his face. Reaching to wipe away the tears, he stared at the glittering liquid shining under the moonlight cast through his window, bewildered by the sparkles reflecting into his eyes. He couldn't remember when was the last time he had cried.

Surprisingly, as he dried the tears on his face and palms, the dull frustration hiding within his stomach slowly faded away. Rousing from his bed, he walked to the fireplace on the other side of the chamber, looking into the flicker flames with doe eyes.

It was then he realized the back of his head was soaked in his own sweat.

Settling down in the chair by the fire, the young master let out a long breath, shutting his eyes then allowing his head fall backward, carefully recalling what had happened today in the market. He went to the manor to see Molly, seeing her leaving the big house trotting towards the summer fair with a smile one her face. And then when he saw her again, she was smiling brightly to the merchant boy regardless to all the people around her.

A smile, so dazzling, he'd never seen.

Growling through his gritted teeth, Sherlock clenched his fingers on the arms of the chair. Molly's carefree laughter from last year came into his mind unexpectedly, as he slowly opened his eyes. How many times had he secretly recalled that glittering sunny day when he first saw her riding out in the field? With her cornflower blue gown flying behind her and her hair messy because in the breeze? Covering his face with hands, the young master swallowed down hard. Why would the memory of her moving smoothly on horseback would bring back the taste of her lips from the other day?

Any why, after realizing his wife was about to leave, would his member between his legs still be able to harden at the thought of all those small things about her lurking in his head? While he was certain nothing good could come out of it?

Looking down on the bulge underneath his hose, Sherlock blinked and panted. The sight of that uncontrollable bit of himself made him feel like a witless stallion ready to rut.

With a grunt, he darted his finger under the fabric, snatching that rock hard nuisance with full strength. Pain shook through his torso, causing him to wince in the dim firelight. Chewing at his lower lip, the scar inflicted by their encounter that day now felt unbearably itchy. Staring into the dark, empty space, Sherlock moaned and sensed the moist in his eyes began to form. He bit down on his tongue, trying to suppress the noise coming from his throat. But all of a sudden the sensation of Molly's trembling lips nibbling at him caught him off guard. Tightening his fingers inside his hose, the young master lost his ability to breath. His hand slid vigorously up and down along that hateful shaft. The sound of his gasps was oddly similar with those Molly had made when she was beneath him on the wet, lush meadow. The memory hit him at full force and a thrill of excitement drove him to his end. All of the sudden he felt the sticky warmth envelope his hand between his hand, as he head fell helplessly upon the back of his chair with a whimpering cry.

He remained still with his hand gripping his gradually softening member, while sourness slowly pooled inside his mouth. Molly's voice and face faded as the tension in his groin eased. Carefully pulling his hand free, Sherlock stared at his wet palm with loath. He didn't know what was worse. The fact that he felt so very sated and satisfied with the dirty act he'd just done, or that he'd imagined Molly to be as thrilled as he was when the blast within his body took over him senses and made him a feeble, wacky mess.

The morning dew felt exceptionally heavy today. Walking along the pebble path leading towards the market square, Molly couldn't help but sneeze, as the chilly winds whirled by. Covering her face with both of her palms, she looked up to the sky. The cloudless summer azure was quickly disappearing, as the early haze gathered over the distant hill. The rolling thunder approaching from up high told her that it would soon be raining. Picking up her pace, Molly silently chastised herself for not wearing an extra cape. Cousin Anthea wouldn't be pleased if she caught a chill. So she bettered be quick finding the merchant boy from yesterday before the rain started.

Thinking of the lad she met yesterday put a little smile on Molly's face. She wasn't very keen on going to the market at first. But once she arrived at the market she immediately recognized the young man selling gems and lenses talked just like the people from her hometown. After a few exchange of words, the young merchant told her that only a couple of weeks ago he'd seen her mother when the mid-year fair was held under her supervision in her father's fief.

That was the beginning of their short but delightful conversation. The young man - Molly couldn't believe she forgot to ask him for his name - didn't seem to mind stop greeting his customers for a while when Molly asked him how her mother had been when he saw her last month.

She was grateful to know that mother didn't look particularly despondent two weeks ago.

After that, they talked a little about her father, until Molly began to feel sorry for him for losing his customers. But the young man merely laughed and shrugged, telling her the people in the town had been the most amiable and he was sure he could earn his keep within the following days. It was then Molly remembered she did have something in her mind - a piece of amber with insects or flowers trapped inside - that the young man might be able to provide.

Yet to her embarrassment, he seemed to be stuck by her request, unable to reply for quite a few moments, before he apologetically told Molly he didn't have what she wanted with him for now. Because ' _the ladies usually ask for limpid gems, I'm afraid'._ But then he told Molly that he did have a few pieces of amber which weren't so clear and crystal . And if she could return to the market the next day, he would be able to show her.

Which was why Molly found herself hurrying to the central square on a gloomy morning. Usually, the servants in the manor wouldn't be at ease to let her out when it was likely to rain. But without Anthea staying in charge, the entire household had become quite keyed up under Mycroft's commands, making them impossible to take heed on what Molly was up to. Listening to her footsteps hitting the solid paved ground, she giggled, as she recounted how she'd avoid everyone and snuck out. The market square appeared in front of her. In the alleyway, she saw the young merchant talking to another older man as she approached. He grinned once seeing Molly stepping into the central square, giving her a cheerful wave. Waving back, Molly beamed happily to him as she glanced upon his little stand. Three pieces of murky looking amber lying on the velvet. One of them had a very promising dark shade inside.

Dragging himself out of his house, Sherlock grumbled, as he stepped into the town packed with the people he so passionately loathed at the moment. He didn't have the faintest idea where he'd go, only that he could no longer bear to sit in the darkness of his chamber. Last night was absolute torture. After making a mess of himself and passing out in his chair, he had an exhausting nightmare about something he couldn't quite understand. In the dream, he was back to be a four-year-old sitting alone in one of the bright sitting rooms in the manor, while people talking over him without even paying him the slightest attention. Among the women who ignored him, one of them felt strangely similar to his mother, which was very odd for Sherlock had long forgotten how his mother looked like - the paintings Mycroft had people make just didn't remotely look like anything real.

And now, walking under the thundering clouds, Sherlock found himself moving towards the market square without even thinking. Why would he want to go to the very place which had given him so much distress? He didn't seem to understand. But by the time he noticed where he was, he was already standing in front of the crowd - extra fretful and noisy given that it was about to rain at any moment - with Molly once again talking and smiling to the young men from yesterday with her back towards him.

That just had to be stopped.

Without a word, he pushed directly through the people towards the little figure that had been tormented him for so many nights, not caring about whom he'd shoved and jostled. A woman screamed out his name, but Sherlock simply ignored her. Another old man did the same, tugging on his sleeve, as Sherlock swung his arm to his face then a wooden stand was kicked down. Molly jumped at the loud bang, turning around with her mouth open. 'Sherl-' she hissed. But before she could say anything Sherlock grabbed her by the elbow and snapped the yellow gem off her hand, dragging her through the staring crowds.

'Sherlock! What are you-' she stammered behind him, her arm twitched in his grip. Sherlock could hear her gasp and whimper behind him as she tried to break free him his grasp.

'Get off me,' she said. Confusion filled her timid plead. 'Sherlock, what are you doing? Let me go! What is happen-'

'What is happening?' the young master snapped, turning back to glare at his wife. 'You tell me what's happened, Molly. You come here two days in a row and you-'

'And I what?' Molly bit out, still trying to fling away his hand, as Sherlock yanked her away from the market. He never knew her arm could be so strong. 'Sherlock let me go!'

'Not until you tell me why you keep coming here,' he spat, almost losing his balance as Molly suddenly halted her steps, planting her heels firmly on the ground right after she heard his demand.

'Molly!'

'This is insane,' she said, staring straight into his eyes, blinking at him. Disbelief was written all over her face. 'You don't know what you're talking about. I…I'm going home. Get off me, _now!_ '

'No, you're not,' Sherlock growled, tightening his grip. How dare she accuse him of not knowing anything after she behaved like that in public? How could she refuse to give him any kinds of explanation before leaving? And how could she… _Ouch!_

A hard kick on the shin stopped Sherlock's train of thought like a cold slap on his face. Stumbling backward and gritting his teeth, the young master stared at the small figure angrily pushing him away. The soft fabric of her long sleeves slipped through his fingers before he could catch it.

'Molly!' Sherlock called out, reaching out to balance himself against the alley wall, blinking wearily as she ran away. Whispers and laughter came from the crowds behind. But he didn't listen. All he could hear was the small rustling sounds of her running away. 'Molly!' he called out again, this time lashing out to catch her wrist. She flinched away and almost fell to the ground as he tugged on her. But instead of backing down further, she turned at her heels and pushed him on his chest. Her knee drew up to kick at him again. This time Sherlock evaded her by wrapping his arms around her to spin her around, only to being jabbed harshly by her elbow on his ribs.

'Get off!' she hissed, kicking and wiggled under his grasp. 'Sherlock-'

'No, Molly…' the young master uttered, holding her firmer and ignoring the throbs on his chest. That didn't help him much. For, on the next moment Molly's heel stomped on his foot. He closed his eyes, as the pain rushed to take over breath, but still refusing to let go. Another stamp landed on him, so much heavier than before. Sherlock closed his arms even tighter, slightly relieved that she finally seemed to stop struggling…only to realize that they were surrounded by Mycroft's men.

'Alright, the two of you.' _Gregor_ the senior steward stood before them with his arms folded, head shaking briskly, as he gestured his men to separate them. Sherlock rumbled upon being seeing _Anderson_ \- one of the most insufferable men in Mycroft's household - approaching him. Anger flushed up further from his chest as another man went for Molly and tore them apart. Molly's eyes widened as she looked towards him. He wasn't sure why she'd look at him but on the next moment, he found himself launched towards her while she was pulled away. Startled yelp escaped her lips before she suddenly broke herself free and raised her arms to strike him. Her small hands slapped to him and, of course,Sherlock caught her. But then once again he was held back by the people around. Snapping his head around, the young master glared at the slivered-hair steward who was just standing there and look at him, utterly unimpressed by what he'd seen.

'That's enough,' he exclaimed, giving his men another look. 'Right. Get them both to Mycroft,' he said. Sherlock stared at him with a grunt. Molly gasped quietly as she heard his instruction. But the senior steward simply ignored them, calling his men to _secure_ them as he let out another sigh.

'Let's see if they are still so feisty in front the master, shall we?'

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A million thanks go to my sweet, wonderful beta lilsherlockian1975 :)


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